


No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross

by barbaricyawp



Series: In Hell I'll Be in Good Company [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Steve Rogers is unconscious while in HYDRA captivity. It could be worse.HYDRA Trash at the expense of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. What else would it be?





	No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the epilogue I promised, but you can consider this a down payment of garbage in return for your patience.

 

* * *

I search for the capsule I lost.  
Drag me to hell in the valley of the Dalles.

-Sufjan Stevens, “No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross”

* * *

  

Captain Rogers appears to be dead.

The asset has been sent on errand down to the armory to pick up the equipment the team will need for their next mission. It is going through the mental catalogue of sniper rifles, silencers, Kevlar, when he passes Rogers’ cell.

The asset hesitates, it hasn’t been instructed to dawdle, but it can make out Rogers’ body slumped under the thin blanket of the cot. He is unmoving and, for a moment, the asset thinks that he is dead. But then, it hears the throaty grumble of his snore. The particular pitch and grind of his deep breathing indicates heavy sedatives, the kind that could floor even the asset.

Somehow, the asset knows that the cell will be unlocked before it tries the latch. And, when it has the cold metal bar in its palm, the latch gives easily. This is almost certainly a trap, probably by the commander’s design, but the asset can’t help itself. It goes inside.

The asset can't immediately see the man. Rogers is dozing on his side, arms and legs at unnatural angles, but the asset has no trouble rolling him into his back. His body tumbles over, like rocks bumping down a slope, a mountain of man.

Asleep, Rogers isn’t the thrashing idiot solider that the asset has come to know over the past few months. His face, so often snarled with rage, is lax now, slackened with slumber. He could almost be dead, if it weren’t for the deep rise and fall of his chest, the flicker of his eyeballs underneath his thin eyelids.

The asset doesn't have a word for the way that Rogers looks.

The asset rests its elbows on his bedside, kneeling next to the cot. Though there’s no pressing danger of waking him, the asset breathes through its mouth, hushing itself.

This might be its only chance alone with Rogers.

It observes him up close, knowing that there’s something familiar about this man, but it cannot pinpoint what. It digs its fingers under Rogers’ lips, feels the wet slick inside, examines his teeth with its thumb, but finds nothing there. It pulls up his eyelids, rolled back and dialated, and finds nothing there for it either.

Disappointing, but not surprising; the asset can only rarely jog its own memory.

It rearranges his limbs, carefully though it knows Rogers won’t wake like this. It draws down his arms to his side, his knees straight. (A mannequin doll to be positioned. The kind you use for sketching anatomy. The asset doesn’t know how it knows that.)

Like this, Rogers certainly looks dead. Really dead. His skin is ashy pale, his whole body ghostly still.

With sudden alarm, the asset can’t stand the sight of Rogers. It flings his arm over his chest, so that Rogers’ hand lays over his heart. Like that, he looks...the asset still doesn’t have the word. It’s better.

But not familiar.

Frustrated now, and running out of time, the asset pushes up his shirt, exposing his wasting stomach. Drawing its hand up his chest is a familiar gesture, but one that it has done recently, in HYDRA care. The remembrance there is not a helpful familiarity, doesn’t get down to the deep itch in the asset’s brain.

The asset tips out the button on Rogers’ pants, but something causes it to pause at the zipper. It feels as if it’s being watched, and Rogers is doing the watching. The asset flicks its eyes up to his, but still he sleeps.

The asset re-buttons his jeans anyway, unable to go through with it. Whatever triggers the rare sensation of memory, it can’t be found down there anyway. Not without dragging up what they did yesterday to him, or the day before.

The asset senses it should feel guilt here, but it is confronted only with numbness. Terrible, complete numbness.

In hindsight, the asset will realize it was foolish to stay here, with its back to the door, for this long.

Just as the asset is rolling its weight to its toes to stand, a hand presses down on its shoulder. Without resisting, the asset remains kneeling, and closes its eyes.

The commander.

Dread spreads through every limb of the asset. 

“This isn’t the weaponry we had in mind, Soldier.”

The asset dips its head, awaits orders or punishment or both. But Commander Rumlow just sits on the edge of the cot, near Rogers’ knees. The weight of his body jostles the mat as well as Rogers’ limp body. He grins at the asset, a shark in the water.

“Were you curious, is that it?” the commander asks. He sounds understanding. Kind, even. But he’s not.

He’s got a hand on Rogers’ thigh, and the asset keeps its attention there. Commander Rumlow doesn’t seem to even notice it’s there. Rogers is like furniture to him, just as the asset is. Not quite human.

The asset says nothing, only tips its head in deference.

“You know what they say about curiosity,” Rumlow continues, taking up the asset’s flesh hand. “Killed the Cap.”

The asset opens its mouth on the desire to correct the commander, _It’s cat, not Cap,_ but Rumlow has already fixated on an order. 

“Unzip his pants,” he says, dropping the asset’s hand at Rogers’ stomach. Just where the hair gathers beneath his navel.

The asset hesitates, again feeling that bottomless numbness where guilt should be. Perhaps it is carving out a space for itself to settle inside the asset.

The commander frowns. “Soldier,” he says pointedly, “Are you ready to comply?”

This was all, definitely, planned. The asset burns knowing it was so easily manipulated, knowing that it needn’t have been manipulated at all; it could have just been ordered into Rogers’ cell, no questions asked.

It’s not a man at all, but something less than a man. Something weaker.

“Ready to comply,” it says, already dragging down the zip.

“Very good,” the commander says.

Praise floats over the asset, the scorn of embarrassment lifted from its mind, and it leans towards its commander. He runs his fingers through its hair, knuckles catching on the tangles. The commander yanks these straight without hesitation, pulling at its scalp.

It feels so good and so right, just what the asset is for, that when the commander suggests it take Rogers out of his clothes, the asset obeys as if in a dream. It lifts Rogers soft cock out of his pants, cupping it in the curl of its flesh fingers. It hasn’t used the metal hand on Rogers yet, doesn’t want to for some reason.

But when Rumlow wraps his hand around the asset’s, and guides it over the limp length of him, the asset squirms.

“Why are we doing this?” the asset asks, looking up to the commander.

Rumlow takes his hand off the asset’s, reels back, and strikes it so hard across the cheek its ears ring.

“Does the Winter Soldier make decisions?”

”No, sir.”

”So why would it ask questions?”

”It shouldn’t.”

”So don’t.”

Thoroughly abashed, the asset tightens its grip on Rogers, stroking him as it has been taught to. As it has been trained to.

The asset looks up to Rogers’ face, half hoping he’ll come awake, and they can stop this whole thing. Or at least do something different. Something that doesn’t feel so violating.

Rogers’ brow crumples, especially when the asset’s thumb rubs dry under the glans. But he doesn’t wake. The sedation has him pinned.

The commander hums, startling the asset so that it inadvertently squeezes too hard. In the back of his throat, Rogers whimpers, but still doesn’t wake.

“What were you curious about?” the commander asks.

“He doesn’t seem human,” the asset answers, casting a look back up to Rogers’ face. Beautiful, and implacable. Godly, somehow. More than mortal. “Maybe he’s something more.”

“Nah,” Commander Rumlow says. “He’s all human. Look.”

The commander guides back the asset’s hand, spits in its palm, and wraps its hands back around Rogers. With less friction, Rumlow guides the asset to twist its grip over him faster.

“Get a look at those thighs,” Rumlow says. And, obediently, the asset looks.

Rogers’ thighs are quivering, hamstrings twitching and alighting his limbs. His toes curl in their socks. He’s totally at their mercy, defenseless. The asset feels its own breath shorten, its lungs suffocated in its chest.

“A man, then,” the asset agrees hoarsely, assured. And saddened, maybe.

“Feel that vein right there? If you press hard enough against it…” Rumlow digs their thumbs in together. “You can feel his heartbeat.”

Sure enough, there it is: his heartbeat, trapped under the asset’s thumb.

This is why the asset prefers Commander Rumlow as a handler; he’s always teaching it new information.

Curious, the asset squeezes down when Commander Rumlow guides its hand up around the head. Rogers’ entire body seizes. Precum blurts from the slit, pooling on the crown of his cock. The asset’s mouth drops open, acting on its training. The commander laughs, mocking.

“Go on,” the commander urges. “Get a taste.”

Rogers hasn’t been here for that long. Not as long as some of the other prisoners, anyway. Not as long as the asset. His skin still smells clean under the sheen of body odor. Rogers has always smelled good to the asset; even his sour musk is appealing. 

It suckles the head, rolling its tongue around the head to catch the taste of salt, before it closes its mouth around Rogers’ cock. He’s thick, thick enough to fill the asset’s mouth. Bigger than most of the agents the asset has done this for. And, as his cock steadily hardens, the asset struggles to accommodate it. What it can’t fit in its mouth, it encloses in its hand.

Rogers makes a choked, gurgling sound. The asset glances up to see him squirming, writhing in small abortive movements, trying to come awake. His face has shed all traces of calm. Under his eyelids, his eyes dart around, looking for the source of his torment.

This doesn’t seem to satisfy Commander Rumlow. He grips it by the hair and shoves its head down hard, too hard. On accident, the asset’s teeth catch the base of Rogers’ cock, and the man actually _whines._

“Still curious?” Rumlow asks.

“No, Commander,” the asset tries to say, but its throat catches on Rogers’ cock, closing around the hard C of ‘Commander.’

It gags. And the commander laughs. The humiliation has a marked effect on the asset’s body, something else they trained into it; heat trickles down into the base of its stomach, a hot pressure between its thighs.

The commander won’t let the asset up. He’ll allow it to jerk its head up for a gulping, spluttering breath, but only for an instant and never enough to grant it a lungful of air before he’s already shoving it back down. Its face is filling quickly with blood, lips swelling, and eyes watering.

“Touch yourself,” Rumlow hisses.

In an instant, the asset’s hand flies to itself, not even bothering to unzip its pants. It ruts against its metal palm. The hard, unrelenting pressure is hard, the rough friction of its pants on thin skin unbearable. Still, it grinds into itself harder, taking what it can get.

Rogers’ hips are jerking up now, and his body gives helpless little shudders sporadically, as if trying to force itself awake. The asset imagines how he must feel now, adrift in sedated slumber, weak to the wet suction of its mouth, its throat.

 _A_ _man_ , the asset thinks, _Unlike_ _me_.

When Rogers comes, it’s sudden. He doesn’t give any indication or sign, just spills all at once into the asset’s mouth. And after he’s done, when the asset’s mouth is full because it hasn’t been ordered to swallow, he makes a soft, vulnerable noise in the back of his throat and murmurs, confused, “Bucky?” 

The asset shoots a look up to his face, but can’t tell if he’s awake or asleep before Rumlow tugs its head back.

“Make yourself come now. Use your real hand,” Commander Rumlow orders. “Don’t you _dare_ swallow.”

On command, the asset’s hand flies over itself, the jerking friction over its dry skin is painful, but good enough with the heady salt of Rogers in its mouth. When the asset comes, Rumlow guides its hand over the head to collect all of its release, and lifts the cupped palm to its mouth.

“Spit here.”

The asset obeys and looks away, squirming because it knows what’s coming next.

 _Just_ _a_ _man_ , _but_ _more_ _than_ _me_.

The commander wipes the asset’s palm over Rogers’ face. The asset can feel the prickle of his eyelashes and brows on its palm.

“Let’s go,” Commander Rumlow says, hauling the asset up to its feet.

The asset follows the commander, doesn’t chance looking back, but somehow knows that Rogers is watching them leave.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah, I also got a tumblr at [barb-aricyawp](https://barb-aricyawp.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Drop me a line if you've got requests or questions.


End file.
